With a Fearful Hope 3: Journey Wide and Journey Slow
by Annymc
Summary: Unconnected Shorts bridging Part 2 with Part 4 (yet to be written) of this series. Each chapter will be it's own complete story featuring story lines within the larger series, and will be connected to the others. They may be posted out of order. I will be posting each story/chapter as they are finished.
1. Talk at the Fence

Title: Journey Wide and Journey Slow

Unconnected Shorts bridging Part 2 with Part 4 (Yet to be written) of this series. Each chapter will be it's own complete story featuring story lines within the larger series, and will be connected to the others. They may be posted out of order. I will be posting each story/chapter as they are finished. Warnings/Tags will be updated with each chapter and will apply to the whole work.

3-1 Talk at the Fence

Scott jerks awake to a crack of thunder and a whimper. He rolls onto his side, blinking in the darkness to find Prada shaking in the small space between his front and Lydia's back. Lydia's completely out, face slack and pressed into Allison's shoulder. Isaac's awake by the door, gazing out the front windows.

There is only one entrance to the ranger station. It is a low concrete building with a tall sturdy fence completely surrounding it. With the approaching storm they had pulled back their constant watch to inside the building. Isaac turns at the shifting of Scott's body in the darkness, eyes flashing blue in the low light. It's still startling to see this new change, and each time it reminds Scott of just how bad things are now. It makes him want to sit down with Isaac and make sure he's ok; some instinct as Alpha and as friend wanting to check in with the Beta.

Instead, Scott nods at him, quickly turning back to the dog when a second flash of light fills the room, followed only seconds later by the crack of harsh thunder. Prada whines; high pitched and scared. Scott reaches for her, pulling her to his chest in comfort. She trembles against him, fur soft and warm against his bare skin. Scott moves quietly, climbing to his feet. Kira shifts behind him in reaction and he crouches back down.

"Scott?" she whispers.

"Go back to sleep. I'm just doing a check," he whispers; reaching over and stroking a lock of dark hair out of her face. She makes a grouchy sound and rolls into his warm spot on their makeshift pallet, stealing his sweatshirt pillow as her own. When Scott turns around Isaac is hiding a smirk, turning back to the window.

It's a perilous trek through the room in the dark, stepping over Stiles sprawled legs, and dodging around Derek's still (barely moving even to breathe) form takes some concentrated effort. If you get within even a few inches of him he wakes up. Scott wishes he knew how he does that. He pauses to look down at Derek stretched out parallel to Stiles. He's close but not touching. There's just enough room between them to let Stiles roll flailing in place without smacking into Derek's body and not an inch more. Scott is tempted for just half a second to nudge Stiles a few inches to the left. One more whirlwind flip and all of that tension brewing between them might finally be dealt with once and for all. But instead Scott makes careful movements around both of them and comes to stand beside Isaac at the window, Prada still trembling in his arms.

"How many?" he asks, voice low. Isaac grimaces.

"Four. A few more and I'll go out to take care of it. I don't want to let too many collect out there. It will draw the attention of more." Isaac shifts his weight and looks back out the window. The rain is slowing to a drizzle, a lull in the storm as the thunderstorm moves closer.

"You should get some sleep. I'll take the rest of last watch." Scott shifts the dog in his arms, reaching up to grip Isaac's shoulder. Isaac moves away and Scott freezes mid-reach.

"I'm fine. It's my turn. Just go back to bed." Scott stares at him in confusion.

Prada makes a whining sound, and wiggles in Scott's grip. He turns away and sets her down, watches her beeline for the door and scratch at it gently with a tiny paw. She makes another high whiney sound and turns once in a circle. Derek picks his head up, eyes glowing bright blue in the dark.

"It's just Prada, go back to sleep," Scott says. Derek blinks a few times slowly before putting his head back down, eyes shutting. Scott turns back to Isaac, frowning. "I'll take her out." He picks up the spear they had jerry rigged from a broom handle, a sharp knife and a lot of duct tape and heads for the door. He unbolts it and eases it open, stepping out cautiously, before turning and whistling for Prada. If the dog is anything then she is well trained, and she waits for the whistle before stepping through the threshold and out into the dark. Scott looks around, counts the not-dead gurgling and moaning at the fence, and extends his senses out to the nearby area. There are more in the woods off to the South. Heading vaguely in their direction. Looking down, Scott watches Prada pick her way along the cement slab sniffing at the wet overgrown grass growing along the edges. She never gets within five feet of the fence.

Scott doesn't turn around when he hears Isaac step out behind him, closing the door quietly behind himself. Checking Prada one more time Scott turns his attention fully to the fence. Holding his breath against the stench he steps up closer. The things press harder against the fence, hands clawing and mouths gurgling louder at his approach. He steps forward and, aiming carefully, begins stabbing the creatures pressing their rotting grotesque faces against the wire. Their eagerness makes it easy to aim. Scott knows that someday all this gruesome death and violence is going to catch up with them all. But not today. He's put down two of them before Isaac speaks.

"I'm not weak you know," he says. Scott stabs a third through the eye, wincing as he yanks his blade free and watches it drop unmoving to the ground. He turns around to face Isaac.

"I know you're not," he replies, honestly confused. Isaac steps forward. His shoulders are all tense, and he's moving with agitation, like a caged animal.

"Then why do you keep treating me like I am? You're treating me like I'm not capable. I know that I fucked up in Town. I let Derek get bit, I almost left him there. I almost let Stiles kill him. I fucking encouraged him to do it! Derek almost died and it was my fault! I get that!" Isaac says. "But I'm not weak!" His voice raises the longer he talks until his voice is rough and strained, and Scott can hear the undead in the forest turn, start stumbling in their direction.

"You aren't weak, Isaac. But you are human. We may be werewolves but just like Kira and Lydia, and Derek we are still human. We're 18 years old, and the whole world is in complete fucking chaos. You're my friend, you're my beta. My betas aren't weak." Scott takes great pride in his friends and his family, but the alpha in him takes great pride in the strength of their pack.

"If I'm not weak," and Isaac spits the word out this time like it's a disgusting offensive word he can't stand, "then why are you treating me like I am?"

"I don't treat you like you're," Isaac cuts him off.

"Yes, you do! You treat me like I'm going to break. Like I can't be trusted to do what needs to be done. You're always checking up on me. I said I would take care of them!" he shouts this last part, pointing at the last body still pressed to the fence, at the three that just stepped out of the forest across the road. "So why are you out here at three in the morning doing it yourself!?"

"I check on you because you're my responsibility. And I care about you," Scott says stepping closer. Prada trots a long beside him staying close. "I know you aren't sleeping. Mom has to practically guilt you into eating. You've never been exactly talkative and now you barely speak at all. You're mine to take care of, Isaac. You all are. You're my pack. You're my family. If you're tired I want to help you rest. If you're scared I want to make you feel safer. If killing these… these things!" Scott says gesturing aggressively behind himself, "means that you don't have too then I will!" Scott's more upset than he means to be and he feels his eyes flare red when he looks at Isaac, the urge to protect and lead making his heart clench in his chest.

"Scott," Isaac says softly, confused.

"You have to let me, okay?" Scott says. "The pack is strong, but we're stronger together. We have to trust each other. And I trust you Isaac. As much as I trust anyone. I trust you with…" He frowns looking down and away. Isaac doesn't say anything he just steps closer wordlessly, studying Scott's tightly clenched jaw.

"I thought you were over that. That you were good with things now?" When Scott doesn't reply Isaac grimaces, his anger flaring for a newer more painful reason. "It's her choice. You don't get a say. You've got Kira. Why can't you just let it go?"

"Because it's Allison," Scott says like that should be enough. And it is really. Isaac gets it. "Isaac she was the first… everything. She was everything for a long time. And part of me always thought we were meant for each other. That eventually..." He drops his voice. "I was in love with her. And I do love Kira. She's amazing and I wouldn't give her up for anything. And I am happy that you and Allison have each other. I am. But part of me still aches over it. It might always just a little." They stood in awkward silence for a few more minutes until the sound of the approaching undead pulled their attention back to the fence. Isaac pulled the hunting knife out of the sheath on the back of his belt. Prada bolted for the doorway

"I'll take the ones on the right, you get the ones on the left?" Scott asks. Isaac doesn't bother voicing a reply. He just steps up to the fence and braces himself for the coming onslaught.


	2. Featuring Fallon

3-2 Featuring Fallon

The pack is halfway through Nevada when they start to get low on water. They're drinking it in rations, driving as much as they can each day without burning out the cars in the end of summer desert heat. Even the rivers and streams they run across run dark with sludge and are more mud than water. Downed overpasses, and miles long abandoned traffic jams, slow their progress.

"We have to do something," Allison says. She's fanning herself with a rumpled and torn People magazine. "We can't keep going like this."

"We should drive North," Melissa says. They're camping at an old truck stop. Everyone curled up on sleeping bags in the back office. There's not enough personal space, but they have desks barricaded up against both the doors, and there's a big enough window in the back to crawl through if things get cagey. Lydia makes a harsh disgusted sound but doesn't say anything. Melissa reaches for her hand. "We need to get out of this desert. We know we need to move East. We trust that we need to keep moving in that direction. But we need to find a water source. We won't make it all the way across the country if we stay this far south."

"Melissa's right. We can sort of arc Northeast, staying clear of the cities as we go, and still keep moving in that general direction," Kira says. She has Prada curled up in her lap, and Scott wrapped around her back. Stiles can barely look at them pressed so close together in the just-this-side of too warm temperature of this tiny tiny room. Stiles is so not feeling claustrophobic. Definitely not. Isaac adjusts his stance in irritation and leans against the glass of the window, checking the road outside for movement. His eyes are glowing blue again. Stiles tells himself to stop being such an asshole.

"We decided that staying further south would be safer. Fewer major cities full of the not-dead," he volunteers turning back to the group.

"If we don't get back to a wetter climate, we're going to be joining the dead dead," Derek quips. Stiles fights not to glare at him. Instead he plops down in the last unoccupied desk chair and yanks open the desk drawers. He finds a hidden Snickers bar that he tosses to Allison. She rips into it with relish, taking the first satisfying bite before passing it on. They're good at this now, sharing food and making it last. They're not in danger of starving by any means but treats are getting scarcer and they take the time to savor them now. When the stubby end of the bar gets back around the room Stiles tosses it in his mouth and chews it slowly, licking a streak of caramel off the inside of the wrapper, all the while digging through drawers. Under a stack of dusty notebooks he finds a torn up and probably years out of date map of Nevada.

"Aha!" he says in triumph. He slides down into his spot on the floor, unfolding the map and spreading it out in the center of their circle. "We are… here. The last exit we saw was this one." He points to a spot on the map. "We're about half a day from Fallon, if we don't run into any major road blocks." John groans, and leans forward in his chair.

"It looks pretty big, are we sure we want to get too close?" he says. Scott uncurls himself from around Kira and moves over to sit beside them looking at the map.

"I don't think we have a choice. We need to stock up on gas and on water." He looks past them to Derek who is leaning against the wall like a freaking bad boy model in a cigarette ad from the 1950s. "Tomorrow morning we'll head out. We'll stop, I don't know… here maybe?" he points to what looks like a rest stop a few miles from the town line, looking at Stiles for agreement. Stiles nods, scratching the side of his jaw as he studies the map. "Derek and Stiles will scout ahead."

"Maybe someone should go with them," this comes from Isaac, surprisingly. Scott shakes his head.

"They'll be fine." His tone doesn't leave much room for argument. John grimaces.

"Ok, but they're taking extra ammo," he counters.

It's hot. It's unseasonably hot. It's mid-September and probably still a hundred degrees out. Shouldn't it be cooling off by now? Fucking global warming. The heat makes Stiles grumpier than normal. He stands up off the hood of the car when Derek finally leaves the gift shop, closing the door with a bang, and pulling dark shades on over his eyes. He's wearing his leather jacket. He's ridiculous. Stiles does not fight the urge to roll his eyes in annoyance. He does ignore the way Derek smirks in answering amusement while circling the car to the driver's side door.

It's been a couple of weeks since fleeing Northern California, since Town, since the motel. And everything Derek does now seems to annoy the shit out of Stiles. It's like everything they felt for each other before has been pushed into overdrive, amplified x10. The bad, and if Stiles is being completely honest with himself, the good too. Stiles knows it's stupid and immature and unreasonable, but every single time Derek opens his mouth Stiles has to fight the urge to deck him and sneer something horrible in his general direction or alternatively launch himself across the room and climb Derek like a particularly muscley tree. Maybe someone else should have come with them.

Stiles decides that now is not the time to start overanalyzing the emotional issues brought on by concussion/near death induced confessions and that he should instead focus on their first scouting mission alone since Town.

What they find when they drive into Fallon is not what they are expecting. The streets are practically clear. Not perfectly so (there are cars parked along the roads, in driveways, in parking lots) but still weirdly clear of the panicked disarray they knew from every other town they have dared to get close too in the last few months. There are no accidents left abandoned at the intersections, no cars left with doors hanging open half parked on the sidewalks. They drive slowly through the town, spotting the not-dead here and there, but never more than a few at a time, and only very sporadically.

"Where the hell is everyone?" Stiles asks. The front of the local grocery store is broken open, obviously ransacked, but nothing else seems touched. Every other storefront, though some are boarded up, seems to be intact. "Something weird went down here, Derek. This isn't right," he says. They pass an Elementary school, where school buses are parked in parallel lines in the back of the lot undisturbed. There are no barricades, no bodies lying in the streets. Derek rolls his window down, poking his head out, and Stiles bites back a particularly sarcastic dog comment. Someday when he's really pissed off he wants to throw a tennis ball and tell Derek to go fetch it. So far he hasn't been able to find either the ball or the nerve.

"I don't know. Let's stock up while things are quiet. We can investigate more after we've found some water." Derek turns the car around in a small cul-de-sac and then heads back toward the raided grocery store.

It's pretty picked over. But they find crackers, canned fruit and veggies, canned tuna and chicken, spam, and juice. Bottle after bottle of juice. Melissa will be thrilled. They fill up the trunk with two shopping carts of supplies, and then in the back of the store they find a practically untouched aisle of bottled water. Filtered, spring, expensive, and cheap. They fill up the entire backseat with cellophane wrapped packs of bottles, filling up the floorboard with 1 gallon jugs.

"We should have brought the Yukon," Stiles says leaning against the hood and watching Derek force the back door closed. When Derek finishes Stiles moves to the front passenger seat door and sets another two bottles in the floorboard. "Do you want to head back?" he asks. Derek nods, covering his eyes and surveying the empty street. "We might be able to come back for a second run."

"Yeah, It's early enough. I want to come back for gas too." Stiles studies the side of Derek's face, the sweat gathering on his temple, the scratchy looking beard growing in fuller and fuller across his jaw. Irritated with himself he looks down.

"We should fill up on the way out of town," he says, turning away and climbing back into the car.

They ride back in silence.

When they pull up to the gift shop Isaac and Scott come out to meet them before they've even managed to turn off the engine.

"Everything go okay?" Scott asks. He steps up to Stiles, eyes searching, as he climbs out of the passenger seat. Stiles laughs shaking his head.

"Everything went fine. We practically hit the mother lode," he taps the trunk. "Show em, Derek," he says. Derek pops the trunk and Stiles lifts it, showing the bags and boxes of groceries stacked inside. "The backseat is full of water," Stiles says triumphant.

"Holy shit!" Isaac says. He reaches into the trunk and digs around. "You guys got some of everything!" Stiles wiggles his eyebrows and nods. He tosses a shopping bag full of condoms at Scott's feet.

"Do me a favor and distribute these among the hornier members of the pack," he teases. Scott actually blushes, but scoops the bag up right away.

"We want to take the Yukon back with us," Derek says. "Fill up the tank with gas, and all the canisters we can find." Scott frowns but nods. He looks up at the sky, it's already mid afternoon.

"Do you have time to go and get back?" he asks. Stiles nods.

"Plenty of time. It was practically a milk run," Stiles explains.

He really should have known better than to say something like that.

They leave Isaac and Scott to supervise the inventorying of the Toyota and it's contents. They get the keys to the Yukon and leave with it. It has less than a quarter tank of gas, and so that is their first stop. They bring every gas canister they have with them, and find a solid supply of them at the gas station just inside the town line. Each one only holds a gallon or two of gas, but there is enough of them to keep them all going for a while.

Derek loads the last one into the back of the Yukon, pushing bags of personal items to the far side of the space, and surveying the left over room.

"More water?" he asks. Stiles nods absently. He's leaning against the rear quarter panel, staring around them in confusion. 1 not-dead thing ambles toward them up the street, but that's it.

"Derek, this place is seriously starting to really creep me out," he says. He waits until the thing is only about 20 feet away before standing up properly. He pulls out his hunting knife and waits for it to lunge before kicking it once in the abdomen, and then shoving it hard in the shoulder. It stumbles, falling face down, and Stiles jumps forward to stab it in the back of the head. He's not even winded as he stands up straight. Eyeing the body for a moment. "Why's it stink so bad?" he asks. This one was nasty in comparison to the ones they'd seen in California.

"The whole summer? In this heat?" Derek says. He slams the trunk hatch closed on the Yukon, and heads for the driver's seat. Stiles frowns, rolling the body over with his foot. That's when he sees the t-shirt it's wearing.

"Ummm…. Derek?" he says. He feels Derek step up behind him, both of them staring down at the grungy and stained Naval Air Station Fallon Baseball Shirt. Stiles turns to look at Derek, smile wide. "A Military Base…" he says gleefully.

The Base is, apparently, located on the far side of Fallon, on the South Eastern border, but far enough away to be surrounded by dead or dying farms, where lack of water had caused the fields to dry up. The whole place is flat and brown, and desolate. When they arrive at the front of the base, Stiles is half hoping to find the military actively guarding it. He doesn't.

The front lot is empty of people, and things. No cars, no machinery, no barricades. No nothing.

Stiles gets out of the car and steps up to the fence. It's strong, visually intact along the front section of the compound.

"Hello!?" he calls loudly. There's no answer. Derek steps up beside him. "Think there's anyone home?" Stiles asks. Derek does that frowny concerned face that doesn't say much either way. He starts to walk along the fence. A pretty thick chain bolts it closed. It's dirty and probably hasn't been touched in a while.

"Let's check out the Southern side," Stiles decides.

They walk for ten minutes, following the long line of fence down and around the side of the base. It's not until they turn the corner, that they see it. Or smell it really. The wind blows hard, gusting across the back of the base, kicking up dust and the rot of human decay, and making them both recoil. Stiles gags, turning away.

The tarmac behind the base's main building is like a tent city. Military issue tents set up one after another after another across the black asphalt. Spotted here and there are brightly colored civilian tents, bracketed by lawn chairs and kicked over coolers. A large tent up next to the main building bears the bright red and white cross of a medical tent. And everywhere the not-dead stumble around, knocking into each other, and the makeshift shelters surrounding them. The smell is horrific. Hundreds, thousands of bodies rotting in the summer heat, even as they walk. Stiles' breakfast makes an encore. Derek grabs him up, pulls him back dragging him back around the corner and further North, out of the crosswind. Once they're far enough away he lets Stiles go, and Stiles stumbles weakly, catching himself against the chain link fence. He hangs there a few seconds before sliding down to his knees.

"I'm so stupid," he says quietly, rattling the fence once in anger. "So unbelievably fucking stupid!" he yells. Derek stands behind him, unsure what to say. Some small part of him had been hoping that the base was a safe haven, somewhere they could go and be surrounded by soldiers and chain link. He understands Stiles' anger. "Of course they're all dead. Everybody's fucking dead!" Stiles shouts. He grips the chain link in a tighter grip, using all of his strength to shake it. He wants to destroy something. The rattle from the chain link is loud, and the give it has at his forceful shake is surprising and yet satisfying. "What are we going to do!?" Stiles asks.

"We're going to keep going East. We will find someplace Stiles. Somewhere that we can be safe. Live our lives."

"There isn't anywhere!" Stiles says, he turns away from the fence, leaning back against it and glaring up at Derek. "We are never going to get back to our normal lives. There is no more normal."

"We'll create a new normal! We'll adapt. Just like we always have."

"Adapt?! I'm adapting plenty. You know, the sight of brain matter used to bother me. It used to upset me. It used to make me sick. I had to turn away from the sight of the inside of a human being's head. Which, by the way, I saw MUCH to fucking often even before all of this started happening. Now it's just an everyday fucking part of life. I barely even flinch at the sound a person's brain makes when you impale it on a spike or the feel of a human skull shattering under my boot. And it is never going to end. Nothing stops these things. They don't get tired. They don't slow down. You've seen it Derek. They just keep coming and coming. They don't stop to sleep or drink or rest. They don't stop for anything except to kill and eat. We're going to be running from them for the rest of our lives."

"You can't start thinking that way," Derek says. "There has to be some place. With walls maybe, or an island, surrounded by water. Lydia is sending us somewhere. We just have to keep moving. Keep surviving." Stiles starts to reply, but the radio attached to the back of his belt goes off.

"Pigsty, this is Ruby. You've got incoming! 5 big trucks with big guns! Get out of there now!"

Fallon isn't huge, so it's not hard to imagine that the grocery store will be where these new people go first. They hurry back to the Yukon, and Stiles is infinitely glad they had stopped to fill up the back with more water and canned goods before heading out to find the military base. Instead of turning back toward the main town, they head South along the access road to bypass the town completely. They're only a mile or so down when they hit the road blocks. Cars parked one after another, spike strips, and barricades blocking the road where it crosses a small bridge. A dried up river bed sitting red and muddy in the stifling heat under it, and cutting across the landscape in both directions. Stiles hasn't felt like a trapped animal in a long time. But he does now.

"Shit," Derek says. He stops the car, does a three point turn and turns back, heading back toward the base and the town beyond it.

"We can't risk heading back through Fallon!" Stiles says. "If even one of those trucks sees us, we could lead them straight back to the pack!"

"I know!"

"That many trucks, that many guys with guns, they have to be from some place that's fortified. We can't let them find us!"

"I know, Stiles!" Derek says. He roars back up the road, heading toward the outer edge of the town. Stiles breathes deeply trying to calm his racing heart.

"Think. Think. Think. Think," he says quietly, under his breath to himself. Derek's hands grip the steering wheel tightly.

"We can't let them see us out here in the open. We need to get out of sight," Derek says.

"I have an idea! Turn up there!" he says. Derek does, turning up a residential street. The houses are small, laid out methodically in a way that screams military. The street is wide, and each house has an enclosed attached garage. They drive up the street slowly until Derek finds a house tucked around the corner, three houses up from a cross street. It's skinny, but tall, three stories in comparison to the houses around it. It sticks out like a sore thumb, but it's also got a better view of the area around it. Derek parks in the driveway, getting out to pull open the garage door.

"Knock first!" Stiles calls to him, sliding into the driver's seat. Derek throws him a look over his shoulder but does as requested, knocking on the door and waiting. When there is no answering thump or groan, he reaches down, yanking hard on the lock to break it and pulling up the garage door. He jumps back gun out and eyes scanning. The garage is empty, not even a car parked inside. Stiles backs down the driveway, turns around, and then drives in reverse back up the driveway and into the garage. He gets out and finds Derek waiting for him at the door to the house. Stiles pulls his gun, and steps up behind him. Derek bangs hard on the door, and they wait. He bangs again. Still nothing. Derek twists the knob and thrusts open the door, sniffing at the air inside. His shoulders relax subtly.

"No decay, but from the kitchen. We should check all the rooms to be absolutely sure," he says. Stiles nods, and goes over to close the garage door, hiding their car from view. Derek waits for him, as they step inside the house and start their sweep.

They've tried to avoid houses when they could. It just feels wrong going through someone's personal space, stealing from their kitchen, digging through their drawers. Even if the person who once lived there is probably long dead, or not-dead as the case may be, it's weird and uncomfortable. Stiles, nevertheless, has gotten good at it. Still, he averts his gaze from the family photos on the walls, his gun up and his eyes scanning for movement at every turn. There are no bodies in the house at all, living or dead, but Stiles doesn't relax until they've checked every bathroom and closet to be sure.

They climb all the way up to the top level, where the master suite takes up the entire top floor. Stiles drops to sit on the edge of the bed, peaking out the window at the view below. With the clear sky they can see halfway across Fallon from up here. Derek pauses in the doorway. He stands there watching Stiles intently for a beat too long before speaking.

"We need to figure out how long we're going to wait here. I don't like being separated from the pack like this." Stiles nods, still watching out the window.

"You keep watch, see if you can figure out where they went. You can open the window if you need too. Just don't get spotted. I'm going to check the kitchen. I'll bring up some extra ammo just in case." He stands from the bed and walks out of the room, all without meeting Derek's eyes.

He makes a stop to chain down the garage door (for a little extra security) before going to the kitchen. There is plenty of canned food and pantry goods stocked in the cabinets. Stiles dumps a load of cans into the back of the Yukon, and takes a bag of stuff upstairs. They haven't eaten since late morning, and he hadn't kept it all down. His stomach is starting to rumble in protest. He finds the window half open. Derek is sitting under it, watching in the direction toward town center, and listening for any sign of the men. It's not hard. Even Stiles can hear the roar of abused trunk engines racing down the streets at too high speeds.

"What the hell are they doing?" he asks, sitting down on the other side of the window sill with his back to the wall.

"They're being assholes, but they're also sweeping the town. Maybe trying to draw out all of the not-dead wandering about. That way there's fewer surprises later on." Stiles shakes his head in annoyance and rests it back against the wall, closing his eyes.

"That's not good," he says quietly. He practically feels Derek's eyes burning across his face. "It means they plan to settle in for at least a little while. Otherwise why would they care?" He opens his eyes and reaches for the bag of food. They split a can of pears and a tube of stale crackers. The radio clicks twice between them on the carpet. Stiles reaches for it, turning the volume down before responding.

"This is Pigsty, over."

"Are you safe? Over."

"For now. Sco-," he cuts himself off, takes a deep breath. "We want you to move the family. Over."

"What!? No way. We're waiting here for you." Scott sounds worried.

"If you saw them once, they could come by again. You need to move, over." He doesn't look at Derek, just crunches down on another tasteless saltine, and waits.

The radio clicks. There's a long sigh from Scott. "Plan Bravo or Plan 3?" He does not sound happy.

"Bravo then 3, 24 hours, over." Stiles says.

"Got it. Bravo then 3, 24 hours. Stay safe. Ruby, out." Stiles tosses the radio away.

"Would you like explain to me what THAT was all about?" Derek asks. Stiles tilts his head back and groans.

"We had to have contingencies in place. Some sort of back-up plan. Scott and I came up with it weeks ago. We knew everyone would probably disagree so we didn't advertise it." He turns and looks at Derek. "After what happened back in town while we were still in California… We needed to have a plan for what to do if something went wrong." He pauses. "The whole pack could have gotten hurt walking into that gun fight. Or into the massive number of not-dead at the motel. It was dangerous and we were lucky no one got killed. So we made a few contingency plans."

"What's plan Bravo?" Derek asks. He's clenching his jaw, the muscles in the side of his face tightening with each grind of his teeth.

"We always plan a step or two ahead for the route we're taking. You know that. After Fallon we head up interstate 80 to Lovelock. Plan Bravo is for the pack to move on without us if their current location is compromised. It's a preset location. They'll wait for us there. It's why we always plan a few days ahead during the pack meetings."

"Plan 3?" Derek says, still not looking at Stiles.

"Plan 3 is for two pack members to come back looking for us. We set it for 24 hours from now. If we radio back we're safe we'll adjust the timing. It goes into effect after 24 hours with no contact." Derek lets out a long breath, shaking his head.

"You should have told us. We should have all known about this. What if you were injured? I wouldn't know the plan and you might not be able to tell me." Stiles doesn't really have a response to that so he shuts his mouth. He's saved from having to come up with some sort of retort by the sound of an engine roaring up the street in front of the house. Derek grabs Stiles by the t-shirt dragging him down and away from the window. Stiles flails but doesn't protest. Derek ducks down too, moving close so they're face to face. Stiles hears the truck move further away, before turning with a screech of tires at an intersection and coming back up toward them again.

"Did you get the garage door?" Derek whispers. Stiles nods, breathing shallowly. Derek peeks up over the sill, keeping his face in shadow. "They're moving away." Stiles listens, as the car does in fact move further away, roaring up the street back the way it had come. Derek moves away, sitting with his back pressed to the edge of the mattress. Neither of them say a word for a long time.

The sun starts to set, and with it the oppressive heat starts to fade away. They take turns at the window, watching for headlights or taillights, the sound of roaring engines and screeching tires giving away their approach even earlier. Thing after thing wanders by, giving the house no notice as they head toward town center. Around dusk there's the crackle of gunfire. Frantic, and loud. It seems to go on forever. It gets sporadic after a few minutes, and the trucks stop making their sweeping rounds of the town.

"They drew all the not-dead to them," Stiles whispers. Derek doesn't reply. "Do you want to sleep first?" Derek shakes his head, barely visible in the fading sunlight, but Stiles can feels Derek's eyes on his face.

"I can't sleep right now. You go ahead. I'll wake you in 3 hours." He turns away and Stiles stands up, flinging himself onto the mattress and staring up at the too white ceiling. He hates this. He hates waiting. He hates how quiet the room is without the rest of the pack crammed in around them. He hates Derek sitting so far away. He hates not being able to talk to him. He hates that the whole world is so fucked up that this almost passes for normal.

Stiles must finally doze off, but he wakes after an hour or so, groggy and disoriented. Derek is sitting at the foot of the bed, eyes and attention trained on the window. His shoulders are slumped. He looks tired. Stiles groans quietly rubbing at his eyes and sitting up. His shoes have been removed. He knows from experience that they're sitting untied next to the bed, ready to be slipped on with minimum fuss for a quick exit. His gun is still strapped to his thigh. That pretty much shows their priorities nowadays.

When he drops his hands he finds Derek watching him, eyes blue and glowing brightly in the darkness. The're comforting now, familiar. Glowing eyes in the night mean safety. Pack. Time really can change things.

"You should try and get a little more sleep," Derek says, eyes flicking back to the window. Stiles pulls his knees up.

"I can't sleep. I don't want to sleep. Are we going to just keep ignoring what happened in that motel room. Because frankly I don't think I can for much longer."

"Stiles..." Derek starts, but his voice fades out after the one word. He shakes his head, and walks to the window. He quietly closes it, tugging the curtains closed over the window.

"What are you doing?" Stiles asks. Derek walks back over to the bed. He sits down facing Stiles, closer than before.

"What are we doing?" Derek counters. "Do you really think a distraction like this would be a good idea right now?" Derek asks. Stiles stares at him in the darkness.

"I don't think it's any more of a distraction than wanting it and not having it. Probably less so. I'd already die to protect anyone in the pack, well maybe not Isaac, ok yeah even Isaac. And I know you feel the same way. I already almost lost you. Finally acting on it's not going to be the reason one of us gets distracted. It's not like I don't already stare at your ass when you're walking in front of me on a daily basis." That gets a quiet grin out of Derek.

"So, we're doing this?" Derek asks. He looks younger. Maybe it's the low light, or how wide his eyes are, or the expectant hopeful look in his face. But it makes Stiles' heat flip flop in his chest. He turns on the bed, sitting up beside Derek, and instead of answering starts to unbuckle the belt from his waist, and the thigh holster from around his leg. He sets them on the bedside table, within easy reach, and then turns toward Derek.

"What have we got to lose?" he asks.

The first kiss is sort of hesitant and shaky. They bump noses, and it's awkward, and it makes Stiles want to roll his eyes at them both. The second kiss is more firm, and Stiles finds himself relaxing all the tension out of his shoulders and back, reaching for Derek with both hands. Derek leans in closer, one arm sliding around Stiles' back to pull him in. The third kiss leaves Stiles feeling just a touch woozy. He tilts his head breathing shallowly as Derek mouth opens against his. Stiles has been kissed before but not by Derek Hale. This is an entirely new all consuming experience. Derek pulls away and Stiles is left gasping, and hanging on Derek by his shoulders. Derek laughs.

"Stiles, you have to breathe. It's no fun if you pass out on me before anything can happen," he says. Stiles rolls his eyes, coming back to himself in a blink.

"Like you could make me pass out. I've got years of experience with myself. I've never passed out. I doubt you could make me!" he snaps.

"Challenge accepted," Derek says, reaching for the bottom of Stiles t-shirt to yank it up and off. They're both laughing, lying back on the bed in a tangle of limbs, and rumpled clothing when they hear the bang. Derek's lips freeze on the corner of Stiles' jaw.

"Did you just-" Stiles' voice cuts out when they hear the second bang. Derek's out of his arms and rushing to the door a second later. He listens carefully, and opens the door a moment few inches. There's a third muffled bang from downstairs, followed by a thump and another bang. Someone, something is at the front door. "How many?" Stiles asks. He tugs his t-shirt back down, and reaches down to pull on his sneakers. Tying them tightly. He grabs up his belt and holster, making his way to the window. Tugging back the drapes he startles, ducking back away. "Holy shit!" He hisses. Derek closes the door, coming back across the room. He reaches for Stiles but stiles moves away pointing at the window. Derek eases back the curtains cautiously. The street is flooded with the not-dead. Dozens, hundreds flood the street, moving slowly toward downtown. They had arrived en mass and recently.

"Where did they come from?" Derek asks. Stiles finishes securing his gun to his thigh, and reaches for his discarded hoodie. He slides it on, zipping it up his chest.

"My guess? The military base," he says. There are military uniforms on some of the not-dead. Fatigues dotted here and there, even a few in regular uniforms as well. All just as dead as the civilians. He steps up next to Derek, peaking around the curtain. The majority of the things are moving slowly toward the light and sound of the group set up downtown. But a few, a small number comparatively, have caught whiff of the two of them, and with each one that heads their way, more are sure to follow.

"We need to go. Now!" Stiles says. The sound of glass breaking down stairs has Derek jumping into action. He reholsters his own gun, grabbing up the bag of supplies they had brought with them and moving for the door. "Wait," Stiles stops Derek before he can yank open the door. Stiles pulls him around, moving closer to press his mouth to Derek's in a short kiss. "We'll finish this later."

Nothing has managed to breach the house yet, but the decorative window next to the door is broken out, arms reaching and faces pressing into the narrow space, but none able to squeeze through any further. They move straight past the door, heading down the short hallway to the garage.

"Any idea how many on the other side?" Stiles asks, eyeing the garage door. He bends to open the chain he'd secured to it earlier, backing away from the shaking aluminum. He tosses the chain into the center console, and climbs into the driver's seat of the Yukon. Derek climbs in beside him.

"Does it really matter?" Derek replies.

"No, not really," Stiles says. He starts the car, puts it in Drive and then guns the engine. The shock of hitting the door jolts them both in their seats and it is louder than Stiles would have liked. But the old aluminum garage door buckles immediately under the hit, and they fly free with minimal damage, the door crumbling under their tires across the driveway pavement. The front end of the Yukon barely looks touched. There are at least a couple dozen of the not-dead in the street, and Stiles moves steadily, and somewhat slowly past and through them with no hesitation.

"Can you go any faster?" Derek says glancing behind them. Stiles shakes his head.

"If we go slowish they bounce off, or fall under. If we go faster we'll cause more damage to the car. We're kind of moving through them like bowling pins at this speed," he says. The reach the end of the street and Stiles barely slows before turning left heading away from the direction of the base to circle back around toward the front of Fallon. He turns his lights on, traveling slightly faster, as they move through the herd of not-dead roaming the streets.

"Why did they get out now?" Stiles aks. "All this time they didn't ever break out, why now?" he asks. He turns another corner. The number of things bodies walking the streets is thinning the further they go.

"We were there," Derek says. "They saw us, smelled us. They were out in the middle of nowhere all this time, nothing to draw them out. And suddenly there we were. All the shooting and noise from those idiots probably spurred them on even more."

"Those men probably have no idea they're coming..." Stiles says. He turns another corner, sticking to the edge of the town, to avoid being seen. Getting ahead of the wave of not-dead. Until there are none to be seen in the street in front of them.

"We can tell them, and risk getting shot, or followed, or we can let them fend for themselves," Derek says. Stiles stops at a corner turning to look at Derek. "What would Scott want us to do?" Derek asks. Stiles stares at him for a long moment, before groaning in disgust, hands tightening around the steering wheel.

"Goddammit," he says, turning left back toward Main Street. "This is fucking stupid, is what it is!"

The men have put up two barricades across Main Street, one on each end of the block. They've moved cars, and trucks into place to block off the road, and set up camp in the grocery store.

"I don't want them to see the car. Any idea how to do this?" Derek asks. Stiles frowns at him, thinking.

"Did I see Allison's spare crossbow in the back?" he asks.

They fight briefly over which one gets to shoot it. Derek wins because he claims he has the better eyesight, and they only have time to do this once. The note is short and sweet: Herd of the not-dead headed your way. Thousands of them. We'd run if we were you.

Stiles drops Derek off a half block up from the first barricade, and then drives up two blocks and over to wait from him on the other side of the secured section of street surrounding the store. Derek waits two minutes as planned for Stiles to get into position. Then he eases around the building across the street from the grocery store. There are three men laughing out front. Two of them are smoking cigarettes. All of them are heavily armed. Seeing them this close Derek gets a bad feeling about them. These are not the type of men that they want to have a run in with up close and personal. A woman comes out of the building behind them. She punches one of the men in the shoulder, he hands over his pack of smokes, and she shakes one out, ignoring the man as he starts to rub his hands over her hips. Derek aims for the wall to their left, far enough away to not hit them, but close enough to catch their attention. Taking a deep breath to steady himself, he fires. It hits with a bang on the wood paneling on the side of the building. One guy shouts and jumps away. Derek ducks out of sight. Peeking carefully around the brick he watches the woman reach for the arrow, and spot the yellow paper wrapped around it. She rips it free as the men shout for the others. Taking that as his cue to leave, Derek tightens his grip on the crossbow and runs, keeping to the shadows, down the side of the building and around behind. It's easy enough to run up the back alley that's there. There is no break in the building all the way down, and when he gets to the other end of the long block, he finds Stiles idling at the corner, waiting for him.

Derek almost believes they've made it clear without being spotted. He's wrong.

There's a truck blocking the road just before the edge of town. They turn the corner of a swooping curving lane and there it is, blocking the middle of the road. They won't be able to get past it on either side, now with the traffic poles and street lights standing on either corner. They brake quickly, Stiles throws the car into reverse, only to have two more trucks close in from behind them, another pulling out in front of them.

"Fuck, fuck, FUCK!" Stiles says. Derek reaches for him, grips him by the wrist.

"Don't run your mouth off. Don't tell them anything about the pack. Be calm." Stiles glares at him but nods once. He keeps his hands on the wheel as a very angry looking man gets out of the first truck and storms toward them. Stiles reaches over and lowers the window halfway, locking the doors again for good measure, and putting his hands back on the wheel. Derek has his hands up on the dashboard, clearly visible for the guys in front.

"Get out of the fucking truck!" The man screams, a gun pointed at Stiles head.

"I'm not getting out of the car. We were just leaving!" Stiles says.

"I said get out of the fucking truck! You're stealing from us! Now get out!"

"We haven't stolen anything from you. We were in town before you! We hid when you got there. We haven't hurt any of your people. Just let us be on our way," Stiles says calmly.

"I said, get out of the motherfucking truck!" The man presses the barrel of the gun to Stiles' temple, his voice going cold and hard, and terrifying. Stiles swallows thickly, sees Derek's hands clenching on the dash in his peripheral vision.

"We're not stealing from you. We don't want anything from you. We are getting out of the way of the herd of not-dead heading straight for downtown. You caused too much noise! Thousands of them broke out of the Air Force Base on the other side of town. We drove right through them on our way out. You need to get your people out of there. Now! There's no time for this." The gun hitting him hard in temple is shockingly painful, and somehow not a surprise at the same time. He cries out, shrinking away, hands coming up in self defense. The man raises the gun again, Derek makes a low growling sound in the back of his throat that promises bloodshed, and a high likelihood of glowing blue eyes. A half second later the walkie on the man's hip flares to life.

"Gordon! Get back here! We're being overwhelmed!" There's the sound of gunfire, frantic and loud. It echoes through the town distantly, and through the walkie with a crackle and pop. "There's hundreds of them! We need the cars! Gordon!?" It's likely the woman from before, she sounds scared shitless.

"We tried to warn them before we left. Please, we have to get out of here," Stiles says. The man scowls at him, reaches back to hit him again, but another man steps forward, grabbing him by the wrist. Stiles ducks away from the aborted blow.

"We don't have time for this shit! We need to get back there and help them!" the new guy says.

"Get your hands off me," the leader says, shoving him away. He turns furious eyes back to Stiles and Derek. "I want this truck. And I want this little shit on his Goddamn knees begging me not to shoot him!" He shouts, pointing the gun at Stiles head again. Stiles steels his shoulders, and when he lifts his head and meets the man's eyes his expression has gone completely, terrifyingly, blank. The man takes an involuntary step back. One of the other guys steps forward again. Stiles doesn't look away from the leader.

"This is not what I signed up for, man! These guys haven't done anything to us. And instead of helping our own people you want to get your rocks off on some sort of power trip over an SUV and some water?" The guy shakes his head. "I'm heading back to help our people. Sampson will hear about this!" He turns away, and Stiles hears the doors to the SUV open and close, the sound of tires jumping the curb as it turns around in the narrow lane to head back. The second SUV that had stopped behind them quickly follows. Stiles just keeps staring at the leader.

"Gordon, come on man. They could be dying back there!" One of the men standing in front of the Yukon says. He turns, reaching for the door to the SUV closest to him. Two more men climb in with him. That leaves them with one lone SUV still blocking their path, the leader and a second man all that's left of these strangers.

"Stop staring at me, you little bastard. You think you're so fucking tough," Gordon sneers, stepping closer. Stiles hears the sound of cracking plastic to his right, a low growl barely stifled in a still mostly human throat.

"I wouldn't come any closer if I were you," he warns.

"Why? You gonna stare harder?" The man asks. Stiles smiles at him.

"No, but my boyfriend? He bites," Stiles says. A second later Derek is there between them, his face wolfed out and his eyes glowing bright blue in the darkness. His body shielding Stiles from the man's view. The man shouts, dropping his gun to the asphalt, and scrambling backwards. He trips and lands on his ass. Stiles has his gun in his hand and pointed out the window before he even knows he's reached for it.

"What the fuck!? Shoot it! Kill it!" he screams pointing at them. The lone man standing behind him grabs him by the arm pulling him up and shoving him toward the open passenger door of their SUV. He pauses, watching him scramble inside and slamming the door closed. He walks over and picks up the dropped gun. He steps up to the window, ignoring Stiles' gun completely, and then bends down to meet Derek's gaze eye to eye. His eyes shine golden yellow, his teeth elongating.

"You guys travel safe," he says, his face quickly relaxing back to a happy human smile. He stands, tucking the gun into the back of his waistband then turns his back to them and walks over to the SUV where the leader is watching them through the window with pure terror in his expression. The Were gets into the driver's seat and takes off, detouring around them and back toward the grocery store. Stiles throws the Yukon into drive and steps on the gas as Derek settles back into his seat, features slowly moving back to his normal scruffy model worthy human features. Stiles always misses his eyebrows when he does that.

"Are you ok?" Derek asks. Stiles nods, hands still white knuckled on the steering wheel. "How hard did he hit you?"

"I'm fine. I'm not bleeding," he says. He steps down harder on the gas, trying to get as far away from Fallon and the herd as he can. He can feel Derek's eyes focused on the side of his head. "Stop staring. I'm fine."

"Find someplace to pull over," Derek says. Stiles ignores him. He roars up highway 95, deserted completely, not even the not-dead blocking their path.

"I'm getting us to Lovelock. To the pack. My head is fine," he argues. Derek reaches for his hip, taking the radio off his belt and hailing Scott.

"Ruby, this Hale Bale," Derek says. "Do you copy?"

"You're supposed to say 'over'" Stiles informs him. He gets a glare for his trouble.

"We're here. Is Pigsty with you? Over." Stiles gives him an 'I told you so' look. And gets a grimace for his reward.

"We're both here. We're fine. We got out of Fallon. A large group not-dead attacked. We're headed toward you now." He takes his thumb off the button. "Did you discuss where you were going to meet him when formulating this little plan of yours?" Derek asks. Stiles narrows his eyes and presses down harder on the accelerator.

"Just ask him where there are," he says quietly. Derek does, and Scott replies that they're at a motel just off of 95, The Royal Inn.

"We're headed that way now. We're going to stop for something and then we'll meet you there."

"How long will you be? Over."

"I'm not sure. If you don't hear from us in three hours. Try us again."

"Three hours, copy. Talk to you then. Ruby out." Stiles waits a few minutes before asking the obvious question, Derek watching him carefully.

"Three hours?" Stiles finally asks. "It won't take that long for you to examine my head." Derek stares at him a little harder.

"Just drive, Stiles."

Derek has Stiles pull over when they see the first motel off the interstate. The Lovelock Inn. The sign is a faded yellow, a bright red heart floating above the name, green script promising "Quiet Luxury," and a cracked light up board boasting "cozy rooms for weary travelers."

"Stay here," Derek orders. Stiles watches him break into the office, coming back with a couple of different room keys. Derek gets back into the car, checking the keys in the low light of the mirror. Derek directs him around to the back of the hotel, parking the car outside one of the rooms. Stiles gets out with him this time, and they do their usual check before going inside. Stiles sits on the end of the bed waiting, while Derek rummages around in the trunk of the car. When he comes back inside with a bag of gear and first aid kit, Stiles rolls his eyes so hard he almost falls over.

"I'm fine," he protests. "There is nothing in that first aid kit that is going to be able to do anything for me." Derek ignores him. He closes the door, bolting it, and pulls the blackout curtains shut over the window. He sets a camping lantern down on the bedside table and turns it on at it's lowest setting.

"Come here, Stiles." Stiles is expecting another command. But instead the words are said quietly, concerned. He bites back the retort he had ready and gets up, sitting down on the side of the bed close to where the lamp shines blue. Derek has him lay down, and in the low light Derek checks him over. His hands are gentle and careful as he checks Stiles eyes for pupil reaction using a small flashlight, and then presses softly along the edges of the bruise building on Stiles temple.

"He mostly grazed me," Stiles whispers. "It barely even hurts." Derek's frown deepens.

"How's your vision? Any ringing in the ears?" Stiles shakes his head. "I don't think you have a skull fracture and there aren't any overt signs of a concussion. You also didn't lose consciousness. Have a headache?" he asks. Stiles takes a deep breath.

"A little bit," he admits.

"Scale of 1 to 10?" Derek asks. The questions are starting to get annoying.

"A 3," he replies, crossing his arms over his chest.

"So a 6," Derek says matter-of-factly. He reaches into the first aid kit, and pulls out a chemical ice pack. Stiles reaches for it before he can crack it to activate it.

"Don't. We can't waste it on a little bump on the head. I swear that I'm fine," Stiles says. Derek studies him a minute longer before giving in. He puts the ice pack away, but tears open a packet of tylenol. He hands it over along with a bottle of water, watching while Stiles takes them. He follows it up with a granola bar and a little packet of peanuts.

"Eat those," he stands from the bed and goes to the window peeking outside. One lone not-dead wanders across the parking lot, sticking close to the rear, and move steadily away from them. He backs away from the window. "At first light we'll go find the pack." He turns around to study Stiles in the dark. "Where's the radio?" he asks. Stiles pulls it off his belt and sets it on the bedside table. They sit in silence for a few minutes, Stiles closing his eyes to rest his head, Derek staring out the front window of the room. Stiles sighed loudly, causing Derek to turn to look at him in concern. Stiles opened his eyes and frowned up at the stained ceiling.

"I guess I won't be getting my hands down your pants tonight after all," he said quietly. Derek's snort of laughter echoed loudly across the room.

"There's always next time," Derek said, his voice holding a promise. He turned back to the window, a grin to mirror Stiles' stretched across his face.

They pass the last few hours of the night in quiet, Stiles sleeping fitfully, and Derek watching carefully. When the sky starts to lighten, he wakes Stiles up, and urges him to get ready, and then guides him out to the SUV. Stiles seems to wake up about five minutes into the drive.

"People really need to stop hitting me in the head. Concussions are not something to keep messing around with," he groans. "Besides they're really messing with my game, and have I not already been deprived of enough sex in this lifetime?" He is not expecting Dereking to pull over abruptly on the side of the street. throw the car in park and get out, slamming the door closed behind himself. "What? What did I do?" Stiles calls out the cracked open window. Derek's face is set and harsh, as he comes around the SUV and yanks open Stiles' door. Stiles flails in place, turning and trying to scramble over the center console into the driver's seat, but Derek yanks him out of the car by the back of his belt, and the collar of his t-shirt, setting him down on his feet. He reaches into the car to grab the keys and keeping a hand on Stiles belt tugs him away from the car. "Ummm... Derek?" Stiles watches confused and oddly aroused as Derek picks up a paving brick from where it's come loose against a decorative planter positioned prettily on the sidewalk, and hurls it through the glass window of the store they'd parked haphazardly in front of. The sound of the shattering glass is spectacular. Stiles finally catches on when Derek hauls him through what remains of the window and he sees the showroom inside. It's a discount mattress store.

Derek pauses, head tilting in that vaguely animal way that lets Stiles know he's using his super senses to check the building. He must find nothing offensive because he starts walking again, Stiles tugged along behind him. They get to a display bed on the back wall, and Stiles lets himself get pushed to sit down on it's edge. There's a playful shove to the chest and Stiles is falling backwards. A plastic wrapped pillow is shoved under his head right before his back hits the mattress. And then Derek is there braced over him on all fours, mouth taking possession of Stiles' like he's been waiting for ages to taste him again. Stiles slides his hands down Derek's back to grab at his ass, smiling against Derek's mouth as he gives It a good squeeze. He makes a happy little groaning sound that has Derek pulling away.

"Head fuzzy at all?" Derek asks. Stiles frowns, shaking his head. "Alert? Fully conscious, and into this?" Derek asks. Stiles goes still at the look in Derek's eyes.

"Derek, I have wanted this for like the last 3 years. You have my full consent for whatever you want to do to me that doesn't draw blood. We're good," he says. Derek studies his face a few seconds longer before grinning and diving into his mouth again, hands dragging up Stiles' shirt, and reaching for the buckle of his belt. Stiles tugs at Derek's t-shirt, legs tangling with Derek's. "Ummm... there is just one little thing," Stiles murmurs when they pull apart to breathe. Derek's hands go still and he pushes up to sit across Stiles' thighs. He reaches down and grips his own shirt, stripping it away, hands moving immediately to unfasten his belt, all while staring directly down into Stiles' face. It's one of the sexiest things that's ever happened in such magically close proximity to Stiles' dick before and he momentarily loses his train of thought. Derek gets the belt and button undone, and starts to work on Stiles' all while Stiles just stares at him with his mouth hanging just the slightest bit open in awe. It's when he scoots back to unfasten the holster tied around Stiles' thigh that Derek laughs a little and breaks the silence.

"You were saying something?" he prompts. Stiles blinks at him and it comes flying back into his head.

"You're insanely distracting," Stiles breathes the words like he can't help it. He swallows thickly, and then says louder: "Do you mind blocking the gigantic hole you put in the side of the building?" He points over his shoulder at the big broken window for emphasis. Derek glances over at it frowning.

"Do not move from this spot," Derek says, climbing back off of him to stand beside the bed. Stiles gets an eye full of dark curly public hair, before Derek is walking away from him. Stiles scrambles further up the bed, and yanks at the last strap of his gun holster free from it's buckle, double checking the safety on his gun before setting it to the side. He watches as Derek pushes a decorative cabinet over in front of the broken window, effectively covering the hole he'd made there. Stiles watches him as he starts back across the room, eyes roaming hungrily over the skin bared by his missing shirt and open jeans. Stiles is fairly sure he's not wearing any underwear. Staring intently at the shadow there, he reaches for the walkie snapped to the side of his belt.

"Ruby, this is Pigsty, we've gotten a little delayed. We'll be there in about an hour," he says obviously distracted. Derek reaches the bed, and smirks at him. He grabs Stiles' ankle and drags him down the bed again. "Actually make that two, over." Stiles sets the walkie aside, and sits up, hands reaching for Derek's hips, his mouth opening aginst the flat of Derek's belly.

"Are you guys ok? What's the hold up? Over," Scott sounds concerned. But Stiles ignores him, pulling Derek in closer, tongue reaching out to lick, fingers curling in the back of Derek's waist band and tugging down. Derek tilts his head back with a soft groan, and reaches down to snatch up the walkie.

"We're fine. Had some unfinished business to take care of. We'll check in if we're further delayed. Over and Out." He lets the walkie drop to the carpet beside his feet, and reaches for Stiles' shoulders, while toeing out of his boots. He tugs Stiles away from his abs, from where he'd been steadily licking downward. Stiles blinks at him, lips wet and just a touch red as he grins up at Derek. Any lingering hesitation Derek might feel melts clean away.

"Think two hours is enough time?" Derek asks. He slides his hands down Stiles' shoulder to grip his t-shirt. He pulls, and Stiles arms go up in the air to let Derek pull it off him.

"We'll make it work," Stiles says. He scoots further up the bed, hands tugging at Derek's waist as he goes. "We're adaptable."

They take three hours to meet up with the pack.

After that they're just sort of together. It's not like Derek and Stiles ever actually talk about it all that often. It just sort of happens and keeps happening. And it's not like they can really hide it. Stiles is half convinced they come back after the first time, and all the werewolves in the pack can tell just by the smell of them. Melissa and Stiles dad are far too observant not to have caught on right away, and Lydia is entirely too damn smart. He half expects that she knew it was going to happen before it actually had. And if she knows than so does Allison and Kira. Stiles loves them all just a little bit more that they don't make a big deal about it. Derek and Stiles come back from their extended run, meeting up with the pack in Lovelock, and suddenly he and Derek are just an accepted part of the pack dynamic. Stiles catches Scott and Derek sharing a few pointed looks, and his father gives him one extra-long hug and a careful touch to his bruised temple, before they sit down to eat and that's pretty much the extent of their reaction.

Later that first night, after everyone has gone to bed and Scott has gone out standing guard, Stiles lays awake on his pallet staring up at the ceiling, unable to sleep. He sighs softly and hears an answering sound from across the room, Derek shifting on his own makeshift bed. He'd had his turn at watch after dinner, and Stiles could have sworn he'd been asleep since returning. Apparently… not so much. Stiles stares up at the ceiling for a few more minutes before rolling his eyes at his own stupidity and climbing to his feet. He picks up his pillow, the pillow, and makes his way through the hotel room to the back corner where it's darkest.

When he gets to Derek, he finds him stretched out, one ankle crossed over the other, and one arm bent up and pillowed under his head. He meets Stiles' eyes in the low light of the night and smirks. Actually smirks at him. Stiles is tempted to kick him in the side, but can't bring himself to do it. He stares at Derek instead, frowning. Finally he decides to throw his pillow at his head. Derek of course snatches it out of the air between them and deposits it next to his own, eyes never leaving Stiles face; one of his eyebrows arching up in question. Stiles sighs with annoyance, and lowers himself to the ground, curling up with his back to Derek. Derek slides up behind him and pulls Stiles back into the curve of his body. Stiles refuses to acknowledge, even to himself, just how comforting it is to have Derek breathing and warm at his back. He manages to sleep pretty well that night, and the next, and the next night after that. Sleeping beside someone becomes second nature. Stiles is apparently more adaptable then he'd thought.


End file.
